


lightning pushes the edge

by Lirazel



Category: Infinite (Band), K-POP RPF, K-pop, Korean Pop, Kpop-Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:25:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirazel/pseuds/Lirazel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myungsoo doesn’t get angry often, but when he does, it fills him up till his body calcifies with the force of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lightning pushes the edge

When the elevator doors ding open, Myungsoo spins around from where he’d been watching the elevator on the opposite side. He storms over to where Sungyeol is stepping out and grabs him by the wrist—too hard, too tight, his grip biting into Sungyeol’s tender skin, and Sungyeol will have a bruise there later, but for once he doesn’t shrug him off in irritation. If you don’t look at his eyes, Myungsoo’s face is perfectly blank. If you don’t look at his eyes.

“Where were you?” Myungsoo demands, voice taut. “I thought you were right behind me.”

His face is too close to Sungyeol’s, and Sungyeol would take a step back—always _does_ take a step back—and say something he’s said a thousand times before about Myungsoo’s complete inability to understand the concept of personal space, but those _eyes_. Sungyeol isn’t often cowed by Myungsoo, has learned to take his strangeness in stride, but right now Myungsoo is so _much_ that Sungyeol ends up having a hard time getting the words out.

“The fans—and then I had to wait for the next elevator and—“

Myungsoo doesn’t even wait for him to finish, just drags him off down the hall toward their room, his grip still an iron band digging into Sungyeol’s wrist—his fingers barely feel human against Sungyeol’s skin. Sungyeol allows himself to be dragged this time, not fighting the way he normally would. He doesn’t say anything about the fact that Myungsoo is hurting him, either, because there are watching eyes all around and the last thing he needs is to see that get picked up in by someone and spread all over the internet. He grits his teeth instead.

Myungsoo hurls the door open and slings Sungyeol inside, letting the weighted door slam shut behind them. He finally releases Sungyeol’s throbbing wrist, and Sungyeol cradles it against his chest, touching it lightly with the fingers of his other hand. Myungsoo hasn’t even noticed.

“We just wanted to _eat_ something. Is that really too much to ask? Is that some unreasonable demand, that we be able to eat two bites before they start shoving things in our faces?” Myungsoo’s voice doesn’t sound like his; it’s harsher and deeper than it usually is, and Sungyeol can still see the way his hand tightened around the plate when that fan pushed the banner into his face, the knuckles going white. His face had been blank then, too, and he’d been wearing sunglasses, so it had only been the flexing of his hand that let Sungyeol know that he had had enough. Sungyeol had been trying to be the reasonable one, because he’d seen the way Myungsoo’s back went so straight when the elevator doors opened and the fans started pressing in, he’d seen how Myungsoo ploughed through the crowd toward the breakfast room, and he’d known that Myungsoo was so very close to losing it. Myungsoo doesn’t get angry often, but when he does, it fills him up till his body calcifies with the force of it. Sungyeol had recognized that instantly, had tried to ask the fans to back up and give them room, had hoped they’d take it for the warning it was ( _you want to be close to him? This is not the way to do it. This is not a way he’ll accept. Back **up**_ ). 

He’d been so caught up in instructing the fans that when Myungsoo put down the plate and steamed towards the door Sungyeol had barely had time to turn around and pull away from the hands tugging on his backpack before Myungsoo was out of the room altogether. Sungyeol had tried to catch up, but Myungsoo moves so fast when he’s angry, and there had been too many people crammed in close together, and by the time Sungyeol made it to the elevator, the doors were already closed. He’d kept his face to it, head down and concentrating on the white fan of his breath against the mirror in front of him, glad of his own sunglasses to mask his own irritation and—

Sunglasses. Myungsoo had been wearing them downstairs, but they definitely hadn’t been in place when Sungyeol stepped off the elevator, because all he could see when Myungsoo approached him were his eyes. Sungyeol spots them in Myungsoo’s hand, reaches out to prise them from Myungsoo’s fist, and when he finally gets them loose, something sharp slides against his finger and in the half-second before he even registers that something’s fallen to the floor, he realizes that that sharpness was a broken edge of plastic—Myungsoo had snapped the sunglasses right in half. Sungyeol slips out of his backpack, dropping it to the floor, and bends to pick up the other half of the sunglasses where they’ve fallen; shit, they were a really nice pair, too, expensive, ones Sungyeol had been planning on asking to borrow if his stye flared up again, but Myungsoo had broken them like a cheap pair bought at a corner store. 

When Sungyeol straightens, Myungsoo’s hands have fisted up again. “Why the fuck do we live this way?” The anger in his voice burns, but not a fraction as much as his eyes do. Sometimes Sungyeol is terrified of Myungsoo’s eyes ( _Myungsoo is his best friend, but there are things about him Sungyeol will never understand_ ).

Sungyeol opens his mouth to reply—something about this being the job, coming with the territory, the choice they made—but suddenly his back slams into the wall, and he doesn’t even have time to glance down and see that Myungsoo’s hands were what pushed him, because Myungsoo is _in his face_ again, only this time he closes the distance completely.

Sungyeol remembers saying Myungsoo’s lips were soft or something stupid like that, back during the couples game that made all the fangirls scream, but they’re anything but soft now. They’re harsh and demanding and totally unexpected, and Sungyeol gasps in surprise without realizing it, and then Myungsoo’s tongue is in his mouth, jabbing and sweeping like he’s trying to claim every centimeter of it, and Sungyeol never saw this coming, and how the fuck is he supposed to react to this?

He doesn’t have time to react to it, actually, because Myungsoo jerks back before Sungyeol can process what’s going on. “Fuck them—we’re _people_.” His breath is hot against Sungyeol’s tender lips, almost as hot as his tone. “We don’t exist for them. _We’re people_.”

And then he’s kissing Sungyeol again, except surely ‘kiss’ isn’t a strong enough word for the violence Myungsoo’s lips are doing to his own, and Sungyeol’s hood has fallen off his head, and he has no idea what the fuck is going on. Myungsoo’s fingers squirm their way under the hem of Sungyeol’s shirt, digging into the pliant skin just above his hips, and Sungyeol can feel the outline of each one so clearly, and Myungsoo has never touched him like this before. He’s gotten used to Myungsoo’s touchiness over the years, even if he doesn’t much like it, but this is different than backhugs and that weird habit of smelling hair. This is harsh and jagged-edged and Myungsoo’s teeth are scraping along his tongue, and Sungyeol is completely unprepared to deal with this.

Eventually he manages to piece himself back together enough to pull away, to take Myungsoo by the shoulders ( _the muscles so tense under Sungyeol’s hands—Sungyeol had never known it was possible to be that tense_ ) and push him away ( _not as hard as he kind of wants to_ ). Myungsoo’s fingers snag against the waistband of Sungyeol’s jeans as he stumbles backwards, and Sungyeol tastes blood against his tongue: his lip is torn. “What the _fuck_ , Myungsoo?” he gasps.

But Myungsoo just hurls himself back at him, bumping Sungyeol into the wall again, but this time he buries his face in Sungyeol’s neck ( _fuck, his breath is so hot against Sungyeol’s skin; maybe his insides are turning to lava or something_ ), wrapping his arms around Sungyeol’s waist ( _too tight again, but that should be no surprise_ ). He’s so warm against Sungyeol, and Myungsoo has always been warm, radiating more heat than any person Sungyeol’s ever known ( _it’s one of the reasons he finds Myungsoo’s clinginess so annoying_ ), but it seems that his anger has increased his temperature still more, and Sungyeol’s half-scared that their clothes will burn right away. He stares down at where Myungsoo’s fedora has tumbled to the floor, noting the ugly pattern of crimson and yellow carpet underneath it as Myungsoo breathes too harshly against his neck.

“I can’t handle this, Yeol. I can’t do it.” If Myungsoo weren’t right in front of him ( _right against him_ ), Sungyeol would never believe that that unfamiliar voice is actually coming from his best friend. His arms are still dangling at his sides, and he’s standing limp, letting Myungsoo crush him close like Myungsoo wants them to meld together or something. 

“It’s the job,” Sungyeol hears himself saying, though he’s still too dazed to even think ( _Myungsoo is **right here**_ ). “It comes with the territory.”

Myungsoo huffs a steamy breath against Sungyeol’s throat, and Sungyeol thinks his skin squirms at the feel of it. “No one should have to live like this. No one.” His arms tighten still more, and Sungyeol is just glad they aren’t around his ribs, because if they were, one of the bones would surely have snapped by now.

“Well, no.” Sungyeol can’t help but agree with that. It’s true, after all, and a thought he’s had often enough himself. He thinks of the way Sunggyu’s face closes off when he has to meet ridiculous demands, of the bleakness he sometimes sees in Woohyun’s eyes even when he’s smiling his idol smile, of how tired Dongwoo looks sometimes even when he’s laughing. Of the way Hoya closes in on himself when it gets to be too much, of how Sungjong’s eyes shine too bright sometimes, almost feverish and a little scary. No, no one should have to live like this. The lack of sleep, the stress of schedules, the insane hours of practice—those are all crazy, but they’re idol life, and they all accepted them when they agreed to Infinite. They may complain, but they understand those burdens they’ve taken on. But this: the entitlement the fans have, the way they treat the members like they aren’t quite real, like they’re animals in a zoo or—worse still—little computer images programmed to entertain audiences at their whim…this is wrong. It’s _wrong_.

But what are they going to _do_? There’s nothing to be done. And yeah, it’s terrifying and infuriating and a thousand other things that the fans ignore the humanity of their idols. But there’s no way to stop them. 

Maybe he should put his arms around Myungsoo and say comforting things, but that’s not his way, and honestly nothing in his life thus far has prepared him for this moment ( _Myungsoo is **right there**_ ). So he just stands there in Myungsoo’s vice of a grip, letting Myungsoo press his cheek to his shoulder, his lips right against Sungyeol’s neck ( _it feels like Sungyeol’s skin is trying to crawl away from it or closer or **something**_ ), his breath still so hot against Sungyeol’s skin. The sound of Myungsoo’s breathing is too loud but familiar, a sound Sungyeol has fallen asleep to a thousand times before, but there’s nothing comforting about it. 

Myungsoo is so tense that he doesn’t even jump when someone pounds on the door and then the sound of Jungryoul’s voice comes through the door. “Time to go; hurry up, kids.”

Myungsoo pulls away slowly, like each centimeter of him pulling away from Sungyeol actually hurts him. Sungyeol feels raw now that Myungsoo is no longer pressed against him, like a layer of skin has been peeled away. 

Myungsoo blinks when he looks at Sungyeol’s face, and then he reaches out to wipe away the blood from Sungyeol’s lip. “Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t sound particularly sorry, and his thumb isn’t particularly gentle against Sungyeol’s lip, and Sungyeol’s not sure what he’s apologizing for ( _not sure what he **wants** him to be apologizing for_ ).

Sungyeol shifts uncomfortably, not sure of what to say, and finally settles on, “You really are the mental breakdown king.”

Myungsoo snorts, and even if he doesn’t smile, his face isn’t quite so steely as it was before. He doesn’t say anything as he turns towards the door, and Sungyeol doesn’t say anything has he bends to pick up his backpack and then follows. The fans are waiting downstairs, and a bruise is rising on Sungyeol’s wrist.


End file.
